


Perverter of Intent

by sarkywoman



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Angel!Simon, Background Aziraphale/Crowley, M/M, demon!Nathan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: “We’re all involved, Barry. It’s the end of the fucking world and the war between Heaven and Hell. Can’t really bring a doctor’s note to that one.”For 'Damaged Wings' at badthingshappenbingo. Armageddon is approaching and Simon's watching 'Deal or No Deal' with a demon eating supernoodles.





	Perverter of Intent

**Author's Note:**

> Can't recall how the bodies are achieved in Good Omens - been a long time since I read it and the show didn't touch on it I think? Did the book? I can't remember. In this I assumed they attain the bodies of people who would have otherwise died. And probably still did, I guess. It's not terribly relevant.

An unassuming young man carried a satchel as though it were a briefcase. He carried it up a stairway that was sheltered by concrete but not fully enclosed, until he reached a foyer-like corridor that led to four flats and overlooked the rest of the estate. He moved past three with his head down to avoid neighbours, who could emerge at any point and ask questions. Small-talk was forged in the fires of Hell. 

“Simon?”

He pasted on a smile and turned back to see Mr Hamilton, a kindly old man with a mostly-bald head but a huge beard, giving the impression that all of his hair had simply fallen down and tangled on his chin. Simon didn’t need to greet him for Mr Hamilton to continue on cheerily.

“Your young man was about today.”

“I don’t have a young man,” Simon said immediately.

“Of course, of course.” Mr Hamilton winked and tapped the side of his nose in a conspiring manner. “It’s just that he was fighting with Bill again.”

A sharp female voice rang out from inside the Hamilton residence. “Tell him we won’t have it!”

Mr Hamilton nodded, though his wife wouldn’t see the obedience from inside the flat, and said to Simon with an apologetic smile, “I’m to tell you we won’t have it.”

The voice inside was occupied with painful-sounding coughing for a little while, its owner the source of the stale smoke smell drifting out into the foyer. Just as Simon was about to speak, Mrs Hamilton shouted out again.

“This is nothing to do with him being a bloke, mind you, it’s about him being a bloody hooligan!”

“I’ll… I’ll talk to him,” Simon stammered.

“Good lad,” Mr Hamilton said. “The boy’ll hurt himself taking on our Bill.”

“Noted. Thank you.”

Simon left the awkward conversation and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He did not get the key in the lock the first time or the second, his distracted thoughts getting the better of his hands. The third time, the key went in but refused to budge the lock. Almost as though…

When he twisted the handle, Simon found his front door was already unlocked. He swallowed nervously and stepped into his little flat, clutching his satchel to his chest like a shield. It was dark, the blinds still drawn down over the little windows. He pushed the front door shut quietly, a caution that seemed unnecessary when he heard a crash from the kitchen.

It probably wasn’t a work acquaintance from ‘upstairs’ then. 

Simon sighed and set his bag down by the front door before wandering through to the kitchen. There were very few people who would pay him a casual visit. ‘Very few’ was an exaggeration in itself, suggesting a handful of people when in fact there were two at most. He knew a few more people than that of course, but they would never visit. He wasn’t sure, actually, that his other ‘friends’ knew where he lived. Did that disqualify them as friends, he wondered.

The young man rummaging through the cupboards (and yes, _the_ young man, not ‘his’ young man, thank you very much Mr Hamilton), didn’t seem to hear him enter over the clanging of pans and slamming of cupboard doors. The Forces of Good described him as the ‘Perverter of Intent and Defiler of Order’. 

“Who doesn’t have fucking microwave bowls, I swear to Lucifer… You’d think he’d just fucking miracle them up...”

Uncle Aziraphale referred to him as ‘that troubled boy, you know the one. Follows the demon Crowley around sometimes. Charming, boyish smile.’

Simon knew him through a number of descriptions and names, but most recently the demon was simply, ‘Nathan’. When Simon cleared his throat, his uninvited guest startled and banged his head on the top of the cabinet. 

“Ow! Fuck!”

For a moment Nathan’s flimsy dark wings flickered into view, black feathers ruffled and… bloody? Then they were gone, the taller boy standing up straight and glaring at him as he cradled the new bump on his skull.

“Warn a guy Barry, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s my flat. And I’m Simon this time.”

“Whatever, I can’t keep track. Where’s your microwaveable bowls?”

“Why?”

Nathan rolled his eyes. “So that I can put _food_ in the _microwave_.” He pointed to a packet of Supernoodles on the side. “They’re not even the spicy ones so you can try some. Might fit your bland palate.”

“I already ate.”

“Oh?” Nathan raises an eyebrow. “Is that where you’ve been? You dirty whore. Who’s buying you dinner today, hmm?”

“Uncle Aziraphale.” Crap. Simon kicked himself for the familiarity and was not at all surprised when a shit-eating grin slowly spread across Nathan’s face.

“Really? _Uncle_ Aziraphale?” He burst out laughing. “Well at least you’re not calling him daddy.”

“There aren’t really appropriate honorifics in current English use for a senior level of angel,” Simon said, but he could feel his cheeks growing hot.

“Call him bossman!”

“He’s not my boss.”

“Mr Fell? Book-hawker? Angelcakes? Even just a ‘sup, fellow angel?’ would be better than fucking… _Uncle_ Aziraphale. Hell, just call him by his _name_.”

“Do you call Crowley by his name?” Simon asked, knowing Nathan held a similar relationship with his earthly mentor as Simon did, despite the fact that they were demons rather than angels. 

“Pfft, no. I call him ‘prick’. Or ‘wanker’. Or ‘angelfucker’.”

That last one made Simon draw in a sharp breath. “You shouldn’t say things like that unless you want a world of trouble.”

Nathan smiled. Aziraphale was sometimes dead wrong about things and nowhere was that more true than this. Nathan’s smile was not ‘charming’ and ‘boyish’. It might have been once a very, _very_ long time ago. Before the Fall. Now those words just described the tip of the iceberg of that smile. ‘Cheeky’ was another one Simon heard a lot around Nathan. Lots of very droll English words to describe the start of a dangerous feeling. It was twenty-eighteen. People didn’t sin for glowing red eyes or fangs in the night. But they might be swayed by a charming smile. They might forgive a boyish insincerity. Nathan learned a lot from Crowley. Although their methods differed, subtlety in their craft had made both of them adaptable, innovative and very dangerous. 

Sometimes Simon wondered if hanging around an angel contact was just another strategy. Their friendship seemed so unlikely from any other perspective. 

“Well, I am a demon.” Nathan looked around. “Microwaveable bowls?”

Simon pointed to the nearest unopened cupboard and watched Nathan prepare his dinner. Technically they did not actually need to eat, which really served to highlight the neediness of such food-related social calls. 

“You fought with Bill again. It’s upset the neighbours.”

“He started it.”

“He’s a cat, Nathan.”

“So? Still started it. Cats are vicious.”

The microwave beeped and Nathan threw the door open, holding the boiling bowl in one hand and walking through to the little living room saying, “ow, ow, ow, ow, this is hot, ow, ow, ow…”

“I assume Bill isn’t responsible for what happened to your wings.”

Nathan threw himself sprawling onto the sofa, some noodles sloshing over the edge of the bowl onto the vomit-coloured seat. Simon perched next to him, his posture an unshakeable facet of his personality no matter what form he took.

“He could be. Like I said, cats are vicious.”

“If there were a cat that could savage the wings of angels and demons, I don’t think it would be in a London flat named ‘Bill’.”

“And the Hound of Hell is called ‘Dog’,” Nathan said with a shrug. “Things are never quite what you expect.”

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re talking about the hellhound. The one to accompany the Antichrist. You know its name?”

Nathan grinned. “Aww, Daddy Aziraphale not keeping you in the loop? Yeah, the mutt’s been claimed.” He ate a spoon of boiling noodles. “Ow fuck, hot,” he said, mouth full.

“He told me that. But he didn’t know its name. The name’s important, isn’t it?”

“Names aren’t always important. I mean, Simon Bellamy, the most boring name imaginable and then you stole the surname off that guy from Muse.”

“They were popular at the time,” Simon said defensively. “And you’re one to talk. Nathan Young.”

“Nathan’s the name of the lad whose meatsuit this was.”

“And ‘Young’? It’s the forty-ninth most popular surname in the country.”

Squinting at him, Nathan asked, “who _knows_ that? Who has that fact to hand?”

Someone who, upon finding out his long-term acquaintance’s new pseudonym, immediately began researching it like a scientist with new data to work with. Someone who needed better hobbies.

“I heard it on TV.”

With a vague ‘hmm’, Nathan clicked his fingers and the archaic telly in the corner sprang to life, showing some irritating gameshow where contestants had to guess whether their box was worth keeping or not. 

“The point is, we both have equally dull names.”

“Sure,” Nathan agreed. “Utterly useless names with no connections to anything important. As it should be.” 

Simon frowned at the odd, rambling answer. Then there was a spoon of watery chicken noodles in his face.

“You want some?”

“No. Thank you. I don’t know why you even eat rubbish like that.”

“Sorry that I’m not Daddy Aziraphale, whisking you off to the Ritz or whatever.”

“He didn’t take me to the Ritz.”

“Oh? He took Crowley to the Ritz.”

“Well yes, they’re...” Simon stopped.

Nathan smiled. “You know, you shouldn’t say things like that unless you want a world of _trouble_.”

Simon had said those words, but he hadn’t said _that_. Somehow Nathan’s wicked smile and low tone completely changed what was said, made it somehow… sordid. Perverter of Intent, indeed.

“I… I didn’t say anything.”

“And your silence spoke volumes.”

With a wink that could have meant anything, Nathan returned his focus to his noodles and the television. 

“Who hurt you?” Simon asked eventually, when Nathan failed to mention it. 

“Why?”

A valid question. It would not have been done by mortal hands, so there was not much room for Simon to step in. Even if he did, what then? Smiting people for hurting a demon?

“If it was a demon I could smite them. It would be all above board. Demon smiting is allowed.”

“What about demon snuggling on the sofa with noodles and ‘Deal or No Deal’?”

“We’re not snuggling,” Simon said.

“Not with that attitude.”

Simon sighed and flattened his hair to his forehead with his palm. The longer he spent on Earth, the more he felt like a mortal. Anxious and awkward. Of course, he had never been the most confident angel in the garrison. During the great battle he had mostly hidden, only stepping into sight towards the end, when the great banishment was happening and he had seen the angel-who-would-be-Nathan reaching for a forgiving hand to try and stay. Simon had tried to grab his hand.

He had failed.

On ‘Deal or No Deal’ the woman decided, after much contrived dialogue and unnecessary autobiography, to keep the box she had been given.

Nathan giggled. “Well that’s a mistake, love.”

The audience all acted fascinated, though they were probably just excited at the prospect of their limbo finally coming to an end. 

They were a lot more animated when the woman opened the box and a wild cat jumped out and attacked her and Noel Edmonds. 

Simon sighed. “Please tell me that’s not Bill.”

“Okay, that’s not Bill.”

It was impressive work from the cameraman, who faithfully followed the furious animal as it leapt from contestant to contestant.

“That is Bill. You put my neighbour’s cat in a box on national television.”

“He started it, I told you.”

With another heavy sigh, Simon clicked his fingers just as the cat on-screen ran behind the counter of boxes. There was a crash next door and a woman screamed. 

“BILLIAM HAMILTON! WHAT _ARE_ YOU DOING?!”

“Was that even for a purpose?” Simon asked, tiredly. Nathan was exhausting company. 

“It was to teach him a lesson,” Nathan said proudly. Then blinked. “No wait, that’s your lot who do that. It was, um, to create anarchy!” He gestured to the TV, where a bleeding Noel Edmonds was trying to present a calm face to the cameras. “Just pure, mindless vandalism.”

“Does it make your people happy, crimes like that?” A genuine question. There was so much about the mission of Hell that Simon did not understand. Nathan was not exactly a great teacher.

“Not really. Nobody really did any bad during all that, except that dude there who pushed that lady over to avoid the cat. That’s a little smudge on his soul.” He shrugged. “I don’t plan on checking in for a little while anyway. Fucking done with that crowd for the time being.”

“So they’re the ones who hurt you. Why?”

Nathan made a loud groan of frustration. “Why does it matter? Why are you asking?”

“Why are you here?” Simon asked in return.

For a few moments he wondered if he should not have asked. Nathan’s scowl made him suspect the demon would storm out at any minute.

But he didn’t.

“We’re friends, I guess. Thought I could stop by? Can go if you want. I’ve finished my noodles.”

“How were they?”

“Bland.”

Simon nodded. “Would you let me look at your wings?”

“They’ll heal.”

“Not as well as they should.”

Nathan sighed. He set the noodle bowl on the side and slid gracefully down from his seat with a little twist so that he was facing the sofa while kneeling. 

Simon’s thoughts were immediately overwhelmingly sacrilegious and profane. Another symptom of his long stay on Earth. 

He took a deep breath and rose from the sofa. He pushed back the little coffee table and stood behind Nathan’s kneeling form. “Okay. Show me.”

Black feathers unfurled with a faint whiff of smoke. 

“You’ve just got back?” Simon asked quietly, examining the blistered skin. Under his gaze, a feather fell and drifted to the ugly carpet, whereupon it burned to nothing in a glimpse of hellfire. 

“Yeah. Got called for a check-in.”

“You don’t normally go when called.”

“Nah, I skipped the last eight check-ins. But this Armageddon shit is getting everyone all serious all of a sudden.”

“You’re involved?” Simon asked. Nathan had been fairly blasé about the whole thing. 

“We’re all involved, Barry. It’s the end of the fucking world and the war between Heaven and Hell. Can’t really bring a doctor’s note to that one.”

“Are you not performing to standard?” Simon asked, wondering why Hell would brutalise one of their own. Oh, he knew what Heaven would say, that it was just how demons were, that torment was their idea of fun, but Simon knew they often had their reasons for acting, just as anyone else did.

“Dunno who’s told you that,” Nathan said. “I’ve not had any complaints from any ladies or gents.”

“I mean in your infernal duties,” Simon clarified, forcing his mind away from the notion of Nathan taking human men and women to bed. One of the earliest times they had met again after the Fall had been in a brothel, so Simon knew full well the demon indulged with mortals. Jealousy was a sin, of course, so it was best not to think about how ridiculous it was that temporary, ignorant beings lay with Nathan and they couldn’t even _see_ beyond the pretty face and charming accent to the darkness and the transcendent wings and the absolutely solid core that had been granted to him in the Beginning, that could be scratched and scuffed but never destroyed, a curse and blessing both...

“Things are going according to plan,” Nathan said, breaking into Simon’s thoughts again. 

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“Not my plan, is it?” 

“Why did they hurt you if things are going well?”

Simon reached out to gently straighten some crooked feathers. They came away at his touch, the skin beneath charred. Simon snatched his hand back and patted at his own hair again. This was bad. This was very bad. This was the worst he had seen it.

“They think I’m going to duck out.”

“But why? You’re a bit of a flake, but you’re no coward. And it’s not like you’re full of love for this world.”

“Crowley’s gone rogue. Met with him the other day, he told me to lay low.”

“This… doesn’t look like laying low.”

Nathan sighed. “Well I never told him about the jobs I was given. Laying low’s not really been an option. With him out of commission they’ve been passing things to me to handle. They haven’t trusted him for a while.”

“But they trust you.”

“Like you said, I’m not exactly full of love for the world. I’ll do whatever. But I met with him and they… didn’t like that. Don’t tell your people about Crowley.”

“Uncle Aziraphale’s gone rogue too,” Simon confessed. A truth exchange.

“Aww, that’s so cute. They’ve eloped.”

“Actually I think they’re planning to stop the Apocalypse.”

“Hm. Good luck to them, I guess. They won’t manage it, mind. What’s one angel and demon to do against the armies of Heaven, Hell, the four horsemen and the Antichrist? We’re in the end days now, Barry.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Simon said.

With that in mind, he reached out a palm and lay it gently against skin still hot from the fires of Hell. A miracle for Nathan was so incredibly easy that it was often harder _not_ to perform the little miracles he thought of when he saw him. Healing him now just required opening the gates to feelings he tried his hardest not to feel. Love flowed through him warm and radiant, spreading across Nathan’s scorched wings and soothing the flesh. Blisters faded into smooth skin, follicles reformed and feathers sprouted like flowers anew. 

When Simon stepped back, Nathan had a full and luscious pair of wings once more. Nathan shivered, still on his knees.

“Thought you’d just straighten a few feathers.”

“They kept falling out.”

“Grim.” Nathan rose to his feet and flexed his wings, looking between them. “Wow. They haven’t looked this good in at least a couple of centuries.” He looked to Simon with a slight frown. “Won’t you get in trouble for this?”

Simon shrugged. “Like you said, we’re in the end days.”

“Well, in a sense, but… I mean, someone’ll win, right?”

“Not one of us,” Simon said. “Me and you never win. I was on the winning side and I still never felt like I won. If Hell wins they won’t do anything for you and if Heaven wins I still won’t get what I want, so _why_? Why any of this?”

Nathan stepped closer. “What do you want, Barry?”

“I want you to use my name, for starters.”

So Nathan asked again. He didn’t say Barry. Or Simon. He used a much older name. The name he had used so many years ago when reaching out a desperate hand to be saved. 

Grabbing his hand, Simon tugged him close and kissed him. His free hand dove into plush feathers and made Nathan moan into his mouth. ‘Perverter of Intent’ they called him, but Simon’s intentions had remained ever constant as far as Nathan was concerned. 

They hid from Armageddon in Simon’s shitty flat. A literal ring of fire formed around London. Nathan got in another fight with Bill. The horsemen of the Apocalypse rode across the world. Simon tried the chicken noodles and agreed they were bland. Lucifer himself rose from the pits of Hell, then went back.

A week or so later, Simon received a text message to his phone on the bedside table and reached over to ruffle Nathan’s feathers to wake him. 

“Uncle Aziraphale has asked to meet for lunch. Would you like to come with me?”

“On one condition,” Nathan mumbled into the pillow.

“You _cannot_ call him ‘Daddy Aziraphale’.”

“Thought we agreed names were irrelevant?” Nathan teased, looking up from his pillow.

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Apparently the Antichrist’s name was Adam _Young_.”

“Huh. Fascinating,” Nathan said.

“For a demon you’re a terrible liar.”

Nathan grinned and rolled onto his back, wings fanning out beneath him. “For an angel you’re a fantastic fuck. We got time before lunch?”

“We found time before the end of the world, so...”

They move together, feathers brushing and sliding between one another.

They were very late for lunch.

But then, so were Aziraphale and Crowley.


End file.
